


Derelictus

by kenjina



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera (2004)
Genre: Abandoned church, Gen, Introspection, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-20
Updated: 2014-05-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 21:21:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1662866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kenjina/pseuds/kenjina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He froze, a finger about to touch the stone altar to follow the consumed outlines; he felt a presence behind him. A bulky, dark presence that called him with a loud voice. So he slightly turned his head and slowly slid his gaze on the path he had just walked, retracing the steps visible in the dust and leaves, until his eyes reached the wooden door and climbed a little higher up, on a massive balcony, illuminated by the rose window of the façade.<br/>And there it was, finally."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Derelictus

**Author's Note:**

> Hello to you all! This is the first fanfiction I post in this website - but not the first one I've written.  
> This one shot came to my mind with a single picture of an old piano and I should thank a dear friend of mine, who gave me the inspiration to write something on it. Thank you, Giulia!  
> English is not my first language: so please, let me know if there are mistakes of any kind. I want to improve. :)
> 
> Disclaimers: I sadly do not own the Phantom.

There was a suffocating smell of mold and dust, but his nose seemed to be accustomed to much worse, since he inhaled deeply and slowly. He did not bother closing the heavy door behind him, unstable on its hinges, and he had no fear that someone might notice him and give him to the police. He had walked a long way to the French countryside, and there was one thing he was certain of: there was not a soul for miles, if not those of the dead who were resting in the cemetery nearby.

Or ghosts like him.

He stood at the entrance, drinking with his eyes the whole decadent structure. The builders must have used many generations of men to construct it, but few to reduce it in that state.

He watched the long nave, whose walls and columns lost incessantly plaster, smearing the stone pavement, and of those that were once frescoes was left very little, if not faded memories. He narrowed his eyes observing the statue of a child, an angel, who handed him what looked like a large shell full of dirty water. He wondered if, by touching it, he could be burned. Who else, if not him moreover, could bathe his forehead with holy water without risking a punishment?

A sad smile pursed his lips when he wet a palm and watched the drops slowly slipping on his skin. Perhaps, he told himself, the God who once used this building as his own home was gone. Perhaps, it was for that reason that the church was left to itself.

He waved his wet hand with anger, drying it against the fabric of the black cloak that covered him like a shadow. Even the mask he kept wearing was now dark, like his soul.

What an ironic fate, his: the Devil walking in the house of the Lord.

He lifted his chin, finding the pride and coldness that would not allow him to bend, not even in front of the divine judgment.

Moreover, which God would have allowed a child to grow up and live what he had suffered? What kind of God would have concentrated so much pain in one single person?

No, there was no God, not for him.

He began to walk slowly, the noise of the heel of the shoes that bounced on the dirty floor, pieces of stone and wood that creaked ominously under the weight of his body. There were no benches or statues, he noted. It was sadly devoid of any ornament and he thought it was beautiful in its tragic condition. The windows, once splendid examples of how the glass could be worked and colored by the expert hands of the artisans, were now broken, leaving penetrate wind, rain and leaves, which now covered most of the floor.

The man looked up, his attention caught by a sudden beating of a dove's wings, that squatted on its nest, hidden above a capital. He continued walking, taking advantage of his lifted gaze to observe the ceiling. The wooden beams were consumed by moths and they did not seem to bear most of the heavy weight of the boards and slate tiles. The high dome, which once stood on the central cross of the transept, was partially collapsed, sending a cone of light on the old stone altar, covered with blocks of lime and a massive layer of dust.

What a mystical vision, he thought with annoyed sarcasm.

He read the inscription on the stone once smooth and he wrinkled his nose, bothered by what he saw rather than the nauseating smell that hung in the air.

"Deus Omnia ignoscit."

_God forgives everyone._

No, he repeated, there had never been any God.

And even if he was wrong, even if he had existed, of any color or race, he could not have found a glimmer of salvation for his damned soul; not after the horrible crimes he had committed; not after having cursed him with every damn blasphemy known.

God could not forgive him, even if he tried. He had created the world in seven days, but it would take him forever to absolve him.

He froze, a finger about to touch the stone altar to follow the consumed outlines; he felt a presence behind him. A bulky, dark presence that called him with a loud voice. So he slightly turned his head and slowly slid his gaze on the path he had just walked, retracing the steps visible in the dust and leaves, until his eyes reached the wooden door and climbed a little higher up, on a massive balcony, illuminated by the rose window of the façade.

And there it was, finally.

There it was, the very same thing that was calling for him from the moment he set foot in that old shack that once was a place of prestige and prayer.

The organ was impressive: the long and numerous canes were opaque from the heavy layer of dust that covered them. He watched it for what that seemed hours, but it took only few minutes, spent on the streets of memories too painful to be retraced. He found himself looking for the stairs that would have led him to the balcony, called by the siren of the music, the only pleasure that he had been denied all those years of running and hiding.

He turned his back to the altar with little grace, since no God had shown him any during his life, and he went up to the spiral stairs of one of the two bell towers, the only way to reach the organ. He had to be very careful to put one foot in front of the other, because the stone treads were made slippery by wear and moisture. He reached a wooden door, which he opened without difficulty, and he had to bow his head above the door, not to hit it. The big, old musical instrument now stood in all its glory and he recognized the excellent workmanship of wood and brass wisely worked; the state of abandonment in which it was left, however, did not made it justice.

He approached it cautiously, gradually peering details. The case was richly decorated and it was formed by an eclectic sound box, from which protruded the huge pipes, grouped by size and length; the many knobs for the stops were once candid, as well as the console that stood just below the case. He blew the dust off and slid his fingers on the keys, consumed by the time; some were deviated from their original position, others were missing. With a slight movement he dodged his cloak and sat down on the stool covered with dust, his hands floating a few inches from the keyboard; he stayed still, enjoying that painfully familiar position for few moments.

Then he closed his eyes and he let it go, like a pumice stone on the surface of the water. The sound echoed through the deep walls of the church, making him fear that a vibration so powerful could make them collapse in an instant; but nothing moved, except the puff of air and dust that came out of the canes; it looked like a man clearing his dry throat after a long rest.

He was not able to play something complete, because he had to make do with the few buttons that still worked. But it was enough to fill his heart with a renewed desire. What it was, he yet would have discovered, but the idea that Madame Inspiration had come back to smile to him, made him smile in turn.

It was then the will of his life? Could he, a deformed demon coming from the bowels of the earth, regain his only reason of existence in an old unsafe church?

He rotated one hundred eighty degrees on the seat, noting once again the grandeur of the old building. He focused his attention on the stairs leading down the crypt behind the altar. A wicked gleam lit up his eyes as he approached with more confidence into that dark tunnel, from which came a stench even more penetrating.

"Deus omnia ignoscit."

He read, as he descended the stairs, disappearing into the shadows.

 _Ego non ignosco_ , he replied.  _Ego non oblitus_.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, maybe I should have warned you that this brief one-shot would not have had neither head or tail. I have no idea where Erik comes from – I suppose he has come to an end after the fire and his escape from Paris – let alone I know not what will happen next – if he takes the church as his new home, if people begin to suspect it is hunted, or if the roof will collapse on his head putting an end to his suffering. I do not know. I just know that this piece jumped out of nowhere in a heartbeat and I felt the need to write it. Blame the Phantom! And my fetish for abandoned places full of dust. :D For people who don't remember latin – or have never studied it: the title "Derelictus" means "abandoned"; the last two sentences uttered by Erik mean "I do not forgive. I do not forget."
> 
> Well, that's all. I thank you in advance the good souls who will read! 
> 
> Arrivederci!
> 
> M.


End file.
